Echoes of Vengeance: The Sweet Wife's Perfect Revenge-Chapter 202: Tears in the Ashes

’Boom’

The explosion didn’t just shake the exhibit hall, it ripped through the entire area. The cars screeched to a halt on the packed roads, headlights glaring into the smoke. Passersby froze at the sound, then ran away for safety, and gathered with their horrified gasps blending with the high-pitched wails of alarms.

The media was stunned for half a heartbeat, then sprang into frenzy, as journalists climbed onto car roofs, camera flashes stabbing through the haze, and some even climbed balconies to capture the devastation.

The crowd pressed in on Aveline, fear turning into fury. "You ruined everything!" someone spat at her face while rushing out.

"All blood is on your hands!" another voice shouted.

"She’s the reason, kill her!"

A hand swung toward her face, fast and vicious, but her guards appeared like shadows, blocking the strike, shoving the man back into the chaos.

"Ms. Laurent!" one guard called her out. "The partition in the exhibit hall has collapsed. The explosion came from the kitchen!"

Another positioned himself to block the crowd’s view of her. His voice was clipped. "Your team is escorting the main hall guests through the emergency exits." He meant high-profile guests were doing well.

Aveline’s breath rattled in her chest. Her mind screamed at her, ’Did I overlook something? Did I fail to be thorough? Did I overestimate myself?’ She began doubting herself.

But no, she remembered the forced, deliberate cut of power cables. ’Someone had done this. Someone had wanted this.’

Her hands shook as she typed on her phone, [Need someone to investigate the situation.]

It took fifteen agonizing minutes before she could push through with the rescue teams.

The first sight gutted her. The glass boxes that held the 3D models, the very pride of the Architectural Walkthrough, were shattered. Not toppled by accident, but deliberately destroyed. The models lay in broken heaps on the floor, scattered under the stampede of fleeing feet.

The smell hit her next.

The smoke, thick dust, and... the coppery sting of blood. People had been trampled over in panic, their cries echoing like broken instruments.

The rescue workers crouched over them, lifting their limp bodies, shouting for more stretchers and helpers.

Further in, the fallen partition. It wasn’t a solid wall, but heavy enough. It had crashed down, pinning men and women beneath. Dust still curled upward from it, choking the air.

A woman’s arm clawed out from under the edge, trembling, before going still. Aveline struggled to breathe at that sight.

She could clearly see the steps on the partitions, leaving trails of others stepping on the fallen partition in their desperate flight; the red streaks glared back at Aveline.

The cries were unbearable, shrill, rising and falling, until they cracked into hoarse wails.

Aveline staggered. Her stomach twisted, bile burning her throat. Her vision was blurring with every second. But she stood. She had to stand.

Her voice cracked as she turned to Nolan. "I don’t care about the expenses. I want everyone in the hospital, the best treatment. Call doctors from any city, any country, if we have to."

Her hand shook so hard she almost dropped her phone as she sent Mike Wilson’s contact to him. "Call him, he will help you."

Nolan immediately rushed out to take care of the situation.

The rescue went on in a haze of smoke and screams. Then Tara’s voice cut through from the other side of the hall. "Ms. Laurent!" she screamed, breathless, frantic. "We’ve evacuated the main hall guests, but a male celebrity is missing!" His manager stood beside her, pale and twitching with panic.

Aveline’s voice was barely audible to Tara when she said, "Call his number..." She didn’t get to finish.

A woman lunged at her, wild-eyed, hair sticking to her tear-streaked face. Guards shoved her back, but her scream ripped through the hall.

"You bitch! My husband is under that wall! You killed him, you killed him!" She tried to claw her way forward again, sobbing until her voice broke into a raw wail. "Why wasn’t it you under there?!"

Aveline’s throat closed. Her lips parted, but no words came. Nothing she could say would fix this, no assurance, no promise. Just despair, crushing, heavy, sinking into her bones.

Then she heard an agonizing cry of pain. She turned around and saw two of the rescue men carrying a body. Not lifeless... yet, but close.

The man was in chef’s uniform, his hands burned black, his face half-covered in blood, his eyes rolling back as he cried in pain.

The air thickened, pressing against her lungs. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, tried to hold herself together, but her gaze blurred again, her knees buckled, the ground swayed beneath her feet...

But she refused to fall while her guards caught her arms. "Ms. Laurent, you need rest." She was as pale as a blank sheet.

Anyway, Aveline steadied herself, forcing air into her lungs, standing on legs that trembled under her weight. She couldn’t collapse. Not yet.

The rescue workers cleared space, and in that heartbeat of chance, Aveline bolted forward. She pushed through the debris, through the haze, until she stumbled into the kitchen.

Smoke curled thick and bitter from the kitchen. A few chefs were curled in a corner, shivering, faces streaked with soot and horror.

Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes widening in disbelief when she saw a man’s body engulfed in flames, rescue workers drenching him with extinguishers. The stench of burning flesh, blood, and smoke hit her like a hammer.

Aveline lurched sideways, gagged, and vomited the liquid she had managed to drink earlier. Her body shook violently, but she straightened, wiping her mouth with a trembling hand.

Her voice cracked but carried, "Secure everything, security footage, hard drives, staff cameras, media recordings, everything. Nothing leaves this place unchecked."

Even as her own legs wanted to give out, she guided survivors toward the exits. "Ambulances. Hospitals. Therapy. Rest. Every single one of you will be treated. Go." Her voice wavered, but her will was iron.

One of her staff stumbled to her with a bag full of devices. "Everything secured, Ms. Laurent." He said breathlessly.

Aveline nodded faintly, clutching the bag to her chest. But her breath hitched again when the celebrity manager’s frantic wail echoed from the collapsed hall. She rushed there.

Dust still hung heavy, bodies groaning under the massive fallen partition. Rescue workers hauled out survivors, barely breathing, broken. Among them, the celebrity her staff had been searching for.

The manager fell to his knees, shouting curses through his tears. "Aveline Laurent, you will cry blood from tomorrow!"

It wasn’t the first curse of the night. Countless voices had already hurled their grief and rage at her, and each one tore deeper.

She wanted to scream back, to tell them she wasn’t the reason, that she had checked every corner, left no detail undone. But nothing came out of her mouth.

Her throat burned, her lips trembled, and her eyes blurred with tears. She tried to dry them, to see if anybody needed help...

And then, he was there. Through her blurry gaze, she saw him. Alaric was running towards her.

She let the tears soak her cheek, her grip on the bag slipped. Her body gave out as if it could finally rest in his presence.

"Sunshine..." That was all she heard before darkness enveloped her.

....

Alaric reached her in seconds. Before her guards could even react, he was on his knees, desperation ripping his voice raw. "Sunshine... Sunshine..." His arms scooped her up, holding her limp form against him.

He snapped orders over his shoulder. "Ezra... Coordinate with rescue, hospitals, and official statements. Secure everything, hard drives, phones, logs, CCTV footage, everything."

There was no car near the venue. The streets were jammed, police and ambulances clogging every inch. Alaric had run through the traffic to reach her.

Now, with no other choice, he carried her through the chaos, his steps pounding across the street and pavements. His eyes locked only on her pale face.

"Mr. Lancaster!?" Alaric’s chauffeur called out.

As soon as Alaric spotted his chauffeur and car on the street, he got inside and commanded, "Springfield. Fast."

....

At the venue

The police swarmed in seconds later. Their boots thundered across the hall as they tore the secured bag from the Grace & Bloom staff.

"This is evidence of your negligence," the officer barked, yanking the bag. "You don’t get to tamper with it."

Ezra’s jaw tightened. "That bag..."

"Silence. Out. Now." The officer roared at them.

Everyone was shoved aside like criminals, helpless as the police confiscated every record, every device, even their personal mobiles.

....

Media inferno,

On screens across the country, the success story had already flipped into tragedy. The reporters who only hours ago had been praising the magnificence of the anniversary now showed live footage of bloodied survivors, of bodies carried out under white sheets.

Families screamed into microphones. Protesters formed instantly, red paint dripping from their placards.

Shut Down Grace & Bloom, Blood on Aveline’s Hands.

One clip replayed endlessly, Alaric Lancaster carrying Aveline Laurent in his arms, while the reporters repeated that Aveline was untouched, elegant, her suit immaculate, her hair falling perfectly against his chest.

"Was this tragedy," one anchor intoned, "a catastrophic failure or a carefully orchestrated stunt for sympathy?"

Hashtags trended in neon red across the bottom of every screen: #CloseGraceAndBloom #LaurentMurderer #BloodMoney. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

But at the Venue, Seraphina’s men scrubbed evidence, erasing every trace of deliberate sabotage until only one story remained.

Aveline Laurent is a killer.